


Sing Such Sweet Praises

by OntheMeander



Category: Vikings (TV)
Genre: Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Dom/sub Undertones, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Loss of Virginity, M/M, Praise Kink, Self-Harm, Spanking, Threesome - F/M/M, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-24
Updated: 2020-11-23
Packaged: 2021-03-09 21:13:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,162
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27692609
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OntheMeander/pseuds/OntheMeander
Summary: Athelstan is struggling to come to grips with the role he now plays in Ragnar's raids in England. Unable to devote himself to the lord like he once did, he looks for new ways to keep control. Now Ragnor is tempting him to sin, sing such sweet praises in Athelstan's ear. But when he is desperate to repent at whose feet does he kneel, God or Ragnar?
Relationships: Athelstan/Lagertha (Vikings), Athelstan/Lagertha/Ragnar Lothbrok, Athelstan/Ragnar Lothbrok, Lagertha/Ragnar Lothbrok
Comments: 2
Kudos: 60





	Sing Such Sweet Praises

It always started after dinner. Always with “Come, Priest, sit with me. I have questions,” delivered in a congenial tone. With a voice that was raised an octave higher than it naturally ought to be, to seem less menacing, and always with an inflection of constant amusement. A potent combination that years of practice probably proved to be fortuitous for Ragnar.

The statement was always posed as an invitation rather than the order that it ultimately was. He’d say “Come. Sit.” but the ‘or else’ was always there, hidden around the corner like a brute waiting to strike. 

The command left Athelstan with a knot, as tight as a sailor’s catspaw, in the base of his belly. It made the mead and milk in his gut curdle. The constriction behind his naval made him feel heady and start to sway in large rotations, jostling the pair of trousers, in his lap, he was attempting to mend. His heart thumped like a rabbit’s foot against his ribs. Gyda placed one of her soft hands against his shoulder, trying to stabilize him, something he is ashamed to say, she had to do many nights when her father forced fermented drink down his throat. The watered-down wines and ales of England didn’t compare to the strong drinks among the heathens. 

With a resigned nod, Athelstan placed aside his needlework, nightly bonding activity for him and Gyda, to take a seat with the farmer at his table. Ragnar gave a self-serving smirk as he downed the last of his mead. With nothing more than a quirked eyebrow, he gestured to the ceramic jug, prompting Athelstan to refilled his cup. The liquid frothed as it was poured out splattering the overflow a little onto the table. Once full he meant to return the pitcher to the side of the table, but Ragnar’s hand stopped him. “It is so lonely to drink alone, Priest.” He declared, sliding another empty mug towards Athelstan. Once more resigned, he filled his own with the same frothy drink. 

The fire’s light bounced off the many surfaces surrounding the home, creating dancing shadows. The flames were thrashing something fierce as the winter wind pushed its way through the thatching of the home's construction. Bjorn was whittling beside the fire as Lagertha tended it, capturing both her children’s attention with the recitation of The Binding of Fenrir. It was a homey tableau, everyone bathed in the golden crackling firelight. A mother with a child, much like the blessed virgin, telling stories of their holy father. It was beautiful if not foreign, with their dress, names, and constant invitation for carnal pleasures. It clashed wholly, these moments, with those memories of them soaked in his brother’s blood and viscera. 

A pressure weighed down the top of his scalp. The eyes of God were surely upon him. He became self-conscious of the fuzz that was slowly obscuring his tonsure. The outward sign of so many broken vows. With each passing day, he broke another bond with his heavenly Father, not resting on Sundays, not fasting, not singing his hymns in the waking hours, and not avoiding to peak through the thatched divider of his ‘master’s’ bedroom. The Lord knows all things. He knew when he finally gave in and stopped shaving. When he finally relented his sacred vows to the demands of Ragnar.

It lasted three months, well into the end of fall, where Athelstan would head to the river just as the sun peeked over the fjord ridge. With an old blade, snagged from the sheep shearing tools in the shed. Quickly and as carefully as possible Athelstan tried to scrape away, his hair on the top of his head. The dark waters as a mirror, ripping with the small shifts of his body, warped his image. Blindly he had to feel out where to scrap his blade. His scalped stung as he accidentally slit the skin. Thick rivets of warm blood rolled down into his hair and face, dripping into the water around him. He was always left with a ragged patch of eviscerated flesh upon his crown. A haphazard attempt to capture that one thing that connected him to his deceased Brothers.

In Lindisfarne, once every two weeks was a gloriously social few hours dedicated to renewing their vows to God. The Brothers would pile into their dormitories and, in a rare moment of relaxation, shave one another's tonsures. It was a warm, even familial, moment throughout the monastery. While scraping away the obscuring hair the Brothers would share the local town news and even sing some non-sacred songs. It was the few times that easy, almost mindless, touching was allowed, as the men groomed each other. He looked forward to those hours, craving the contact among the bodily loneliness he regularly felt. He didn't truly know what loneliness was until the heathens came.

However, after many of his botched attempts to shave, He had to return to the farm covered in his own bloodstains and raw scalp. Every time, Lagertha would chastise him for an hour or more. With each reoccurrence, the speeches would get louder, more inflamed, and vicious with its veiled threats. Yet every time, while She was infuriated, she would kick the children out so she had a room as she mopped up the bloody mess and applied ointment to his scalp.

Every time she would threaten to toss him to the wolves if he continued. Every time he would ignore her, sneak away to the water's edge and hack at his own hair. “Do you enjoy angering me, priest? Find it funny to disrespect my orders?” she would demand to know as his medical attention becomes more acrid and painful. Athelstan would sit there in silence, let her treated him and roughly as she deemed fit, and promise himself that this is what the Lord wanted. This was just another of his tests.

Two weeks ago was when it came to an end. As she wrapped bandages around the wound, Ragnar stumbled in, weighted down by firewood, with a confused expression. A simple “Priest,” was all it took to ramp Lagertha right back up. A colorful tirade of curses that made Athelstan shamefaced as Ragnar’s shit-eating grin grew. “Wife,” He would half-heartedly ‘placate’, which only spurred her on more, and just seemed oh so adorable in his eyes.

In the end, she demanded that all the knives be locked away for his reach, for she “Will not tolerate him bleeding all over the wash!” A demand that despite Athelstan’s best attempts to smuggle away a blade, was upheld.

Now, amidst the bitter Norse winter, he was left without his clothes, his Brothers, and his tonsure to stand him out as a good Christian. He was left blank. Swimming in ill-fitted hand me downs of Ragnar’s. All that was truly left of his identity was his hidden gospel, brass crucifix, and knowledge that Ragnar strived to mine clean. The knowledge that Athelstan divulged and, come spring, would be used to pillage, rape, and burn his home down even faster. He used to take more from his people and his Lord, especially the gifts for his Father. All that pain, thanks to these homey moments of sharing simple drinks and stories with the Lothbrok family.

Ragnar slapped his calloused palms against the table, demanding Athelstan’s undivided attention. Raising up his tankard, the fierce Viking waited, until Athelstan completely finished his own drink. Before becoming impatient, Ragnar ‘helped’ him by tipping the jug, much like he did with his children, to make Athelstan finish his drink or risk it sloshing down his front. The honey wine settled in as the world started to fuzz. His vision feeling slow and lazy.

As Athelstan coughed, Ragnar chuckled before downing a third of his in one go. The foam collected around his whiskers, “Now, Priest, what is it you Christians fear so much about this ‘Devil’?” he inquired, wiping away the froth.

Athelstan sat there just looking at the Viking, as he bent over to refill the priest’s mug, trying to unravel that endless knot, that forms when he looked into those blue eyes, he hasn't been able to loosen since that moment in the chapel at Lindisfarne.

Left with no new insights and a tankard laden with drink, he resigned himself to his evening. One of encouraged drunkenness and loose lips. So, he began to speak, relaying the tales of the fallen angel, ethereal gardens, and the creation of the original sin. Already, he could feel the word slur on his tongue, become loose and meshed haphazardly together. A fuzzy filter encroached in on his periphery and his head became heavy on his neck. He rested forward, only for Ragnar to do the same, bringing them into a tight intimate bubble. As they went, Athelstan became warm, a line of sweat forming around his scalp.

Long into the night, they talk, well past the time that Lagertha took the children to bed. The sounds of the night were all awash in more mead. Questions started to shift, progressing from “What is the devil?” to “Why do they meet on Sunday?” and “So everyone goes to church at the same time?” and “So no one is guarding themselves on Sunday mornings” and “How do I know when everyone is at church?” With each question, Ragnar leans in closer, speaks softer, give more attention to Athelstan.

Athelstan’s cheeks started to tingle; he couldn’t stop smiling. Ragnar was so interested, he looked at Athelstan like he held the entire world. It made him feel special as he started to become blearily tired. 

As his eyelids become too heavy to open once more, he hears Ragnar rumble, “Good Boy”. The knot in his stomach tightens, seizing along his entire body and for a moment Athelstan stops breathing.

Athelstan just wanted to curl up close, into that heat made between them, where they breathe mingled. Slowly, as the words rushed out, he grazed his free hands across the wooden table. He wanted to curl his finger around the blond-haired forearm, rippling with muscle. The last thing he thought, laying his head on the table, was ‘Were his eyes always so blue?’

By morning, Athelstan woke up with a painful pulse in his head, alone and cold is own bed. Dreams of seas were what he remembered once he reopened his crusted eyes. The inky black tides that thrashed, writhed, and roared like the beasts of Revelations. Images still branded behind the lids of his eyes every time he blinked.

The sun was a harsh glare between the wall thatching, making the ache in his head worse. The rest of the world was quiet, just on the cusp of everything and everyone waking up. He was alone, with nothing but the weight of his loose lips to keep his sorrow company. 

* * *

He was slipping down the heathen path. He felt it and he knew that God felt it as well. The Latin was stale on his lips and his heart was swollen with sinful emotions. If he wasn’t chanting hymns, he was exposing secrets to his conquers. Every single one would be worth its weight in dead martyrs across the sea in England.

He tried to stave off the horrible images his mind conjured, by reciting the Book of Job while he worked. Focusing on what pain must have been felt as the man found out his crows, livestock and children were all dead. It kept him grounded. Kept Athelstan from the lookout into the fjord and see it for anything other than the godless foreign land he was dragged to. Surely that was part of his test, to wake up see such splendid forests and remember that it is as enduring as the garden of Eden.

What was worse though, were the moments when the Lothbrok’s familial nature brought out the joy in Athelstan’s day. They started out few and far between but were growing more frequent at a dispiriting pace.

It was in the way that Lagertha’s stories could distract him or Ragnar’s crass humor pull a small laugh out of him. They would actually manage to make him forget where he was and why. They acted like he was family, talking with him in that familiar way that only years of tenderness usually afforded. Among all of these, the little praises started to fall from Ragnar’s mouth just as much as the snow outside. He would sneak them into the conversation, commands, and even the passing statements. They were sudden erratic; Athelstan never knew when to expect them but he assumed that’s what Ragnar wanted.

As he would tend to the farm animals, Ragnar would pass him tools, hands brushing, and state a soft “You’re doing so well little priest.” When he sat by the fires, tending to the cooking, the Viking would whisper, “Good Boy.” Worse, late into the night after drinks and stories Ragnar running his fingers over the top of the soft stubble on Athelstan’s tonsure he whispered, “Keep being good for me,” right into Athelstan’s ear.

Every time, no matter when or where Athelstan's body would tighten up. As Ragnar would breathe those words, Athelstan would lose his. That space below his stomach would tingle and demand attention. Cheeks flushing, he’d shift his clothes to all eve the sinful feelings his body was overcome by. Ragnar watched this carefully, with those sharp eyes that saw everything. He seemed to reveal in Athelstan’s reaction, smiling to himself as he stared like a bird of prey toying with its prize.

He felt something he was told to fear, for it could lead to his damnation. Athelstan felt pride. He was proud to be told he was good.

* * *

The stars were bright pinpoints across the fabric of the sky. Rich and deep, every saved

soul looking down from heaven. Billions of eyes watching down as Ragnar laid in the wet grass with Gyda and Bjorn. He was pointing out seemingly random collections of stars to regale an endless series of Norse stories. Everything from the creations by the gods to his own larger than life tales too using the navigational power of the cosmos.

Trying to ignore the natural raucous that seemed to simply follow Ragnar, Athelstan fixed his gaze upon a single star, one at a time. Absently curious on how all the world, every other star, seemed to disappear as he stares unblinkingly at that single point. In those moments he was singularly alone, just him and the stars and their creator. His Creator.

“And with a great jump, we cleared the fallen tree but…” He delivered with great pregnant pauses for drama. “There was no ground to land on.” Bjorn let out a loud cheering laugh disguising Gyda’s shaky gasp.

Ragnar was regaling them with a mildly worrying story of a young Rollo and himself nearly chasing one another off the side of a sharp cliff side with “hunting for Huldra.” They had heard it before, even Athelstan had heard it at least once or twice, yet the children still reacted with excitement. Their voices carrying in the cold night air as the family watched lights dance in the style.

“Priest,” Ragnar urged, directing his full weighty attention on Athelstan “Tell them a story of your home.” Gyda had a wide-eyed wonder, she had an insatiable curiosity like her fathers, while Bjorn held begrudging interest, wary of anything the priest had to say or was.

Sitting up slowly, brushing the snow that clung to his shoulders off, Athelstan tried to find a reason to decline. That look on Ragnar’s face though said that there was little he could do to assuage the man. “Uh… Well okay, how about the story of Lazarus.” He offered, preparing to tell the resurrection story as excitingly as possible to keep the children entertained.

“No. No. Tell us something about your life in England” Ragnar overrode anyone else’s opinion, much like he always did.

“I never did anything of excitement,” Athelstan told them earnestly. The monastery never gave the boys the kind of freedom that Ragnar experienced.

“Come now there must be something of interest. Do your English not get into trouble with other boys like we?” Athelstan didn’t know if he understood fully what Ragnar meant by that. Unsure if the other man was simply teasing him or implying more.

“Well… In the books of my people, they foretell the end of days. The coming of which is foretold by a great beast coming from the sea. As a child in the monastery, we were told to avoid the beaches. There was this boy, who was close to my age, Brother Mathis who was fascinated by the beach. He always talked about the storms on the horizon and how the waves changed through the day. Then one day, rumors started to be passed by the farmers. They said there was a monster from the ocean.” Bringing his arms up in a mildly menacing way, trying to sell this idea of a monster. Gyda looked completely engulfed in the story, mirroring her father’s own fervent staring. “A great beast with seven heads and ten horns and upon his horns were ten crowns. It had a leopard’s spotted body but limbs as a fish, with a great big lion mouth.”

“One day Mathis came and told me a plan to go see the beast on the beach. He had made a plan to escape the monastery, find the beast, and defeat it. Our morning chores meant that the Older brothers were too busy to pay attention so as we took grain into the basement store, we hid there. When the bell rang, we hid in the cellar, to avoid the brothers from taking us to the church.”

“So, when the bell rings, everyone must go to church?” Ragnar interrupted, not even hiding his interest in this bit of information. His cunning mind surely already formulating plans to use it for his benefit.

“Father please,” Gyda actually chastised the man who merely smiled good-natured after being told off. She waved him on to keep telling his tail and Athelstan couldn’t help but smile at her control over her warrior father.

“Once ever was in church and the songs were sung, we crawled out from the basement. The front gate was left wide open, to allow in farmers who were late coming in from the fields. We snuck out the front gate. we could see the beach from the hill and I had never been to the beach before. The sand was gritty and clung to our heels as we tried to chase the waves. Birds flew overhead and we chased them as well. Then we saw the beast.” He paused for dramatic effect, pretending that he wasn’t basking in the attention they were all giving him. Refusing to look Ragnar in the eye as he watched in the keen way that made Athelstan feel unstable.

“And?” Bjorn asked, sounding far more excited than he wanted to as he instantly frowned and leaned back pretending to be bored.

“It was dead. This massive beast indeed had the spots of a cheetah and limbs like a fish. It was as large as a horse, laid out on the beach. Mathis wanted to be sure so we found some reeds and inspected the beast. It had black teeth and these wiry stands stick out from its face. We tried to pull some of the teeth out, to keep as proof of the beast. Then, we were caught by a brother on the beach. They dragged us away.”

“What did they do with the beast?” Gyda asked

“I am not sure, but its body was gone within the hour.”

“That wasn’t a good story!” Bjorn announced Athelstan deflated slightly. He knew he wouldn’t have a story for the kids but just hearing how disappointed they were hurt. Their disappointment curdled in his stomach, Athelstan bringing in his legs to ease the discomfort.

“I have much better stories.” The young man boasted, diving into another tale of the gods that his sister listened to attentively. Athelstan watched them, not really paying attention merely just raking the moment in. Suddenly there was a hand on his head, jumping slightly he was met by Lagertha’s reserved face, smiling down at him.

“Your hair is growing out nicely.” She commented as her trimmed nails cared through his disappearing tonsure, “You look pretty”. Athelstan flushed, that feeling in his groan exploding leaving him hot and bothered. She kept smiling at him even as she settled next to her family.

He went back to looking at the stars. Every one of them, every glittering angel in the sky, glared back in betrayed fury.

* * *

It all became too much. The constant pressure of the Lord’s eyes baring down on his long brown hair and his heathen clothed body. His body felt like it was constantly trudging through mud, like a serpent rolling along its belly. Even the slop buckets he lugged seem to have little impact upon the weight constantly across his shoulders.

His tonsure was completely grown over at this point, he no longer had no way to outwardly show his devotion to God. Reading from his Gospel was becoming harder as well, for if he stayed up too late, he risked hear Ragnar and Lagertha’s amorous endeavors. It was harder to keep his eyes on the good word when just in his periphery was the undulating movements. He focused on it once, just to see Ragnar’s well-toned ass flexing as he fucked into his wife. The way his back muscles flexed, the dimples on his lower back disappearing and reappearing with each thrust. Her moans, mingled with the slapping of sweaty skin, telling them just how much she enjoyed his powerful hips.

Whenever he closed his eyes, Athelstan would just see that sinful image in his mind. Desperate to be distracted, Athelstan dived into any work the family would give him. Hard work being the only similarity to his old life here in the heathen land. He took the work and practiced shared his gospel with the animals, as they were the only ones who would listen. He was finishing up in the sheep’s pin, just finishing cleaning the muck off their hooves, when Ragnar’s booming voice caught his attention

“Well done.” Ragnar praised, “Now be a good boy and take this to the Shed.” smiling knowingly as Athelstan chocked on a whimper. He had a few tools in hand, waiting for Athelstan to follow his order. Snatching up the tools, ignoring his uncomfortable arousal, he raced up the path to the shed. He could hear Ragnar’s hearty laugh as he fled.

The shed was tucked around the side of the house, facing out to the water's edge. It was secluded and quiet, perfect for Athelstan to lean against and just try to breathe. He groped his crotch, feeling the tell-tale signs of arousal. The heat of his palm made him groan as the pressure made him harder. Sighing he leaned against the wall, his hips thrusting out as he slowly rubbed himself. 

This is a sin. Gasping, He pulled his hand away as if burned, instead of digging his fingers into the wood of the shed. His nails ripped and bent with the force, delivering a new type of burning sensation. He was starting to sin. He was on his last tether and about to take the final fall just like the angel Lucifer. He was losing control.

He closed his eyes and dug his nails in deeper into the way. Breathing deeply, he just tried to will away his arousal. Reciting prayers he was desperate for his member to go down. When he had finally calmed himself down, he stumbled into the shed. It was organized chaos with the farm’s essentials stored in the dark dry building.

Buried in the back of the shed was a coil of rope, only thick enough to be used as a makeshift leash for rowdy livestock, or English slaves. Take his dagger he sectioned off four equal lengths of rope. The dull blade fraying the cut edges. Pocketing the dagger, he pulled out the broken piece of the leather belt and weaving and tying our pieces together, creating a thick sturdy handle. Content with that he moved on to individually separate the weaved strands. 

The cording bit into his skin, his dried-out hands easily being sliced through. As he finished, the edges of the four tails become lightly pinkened and perfectly crafted into a sturdy flog.

With the first whip, the knot around his lungs loosened. With the second the pain in his back drained the weight from his shoulders. With the third, the warms in his groin rush up his spine. With the fourth, he is lighter than ever, in control, and knows he won’t be able to stop.


End file.
